The city burns sideways like
Poisoned nightingales,
Like passenger liners going down,
Gardens nodding off into
Crepuscule:
There they go, misspelled with
Mailboxes,
The truant boys asleep en creched in
Sofas on the roof,
Their paper bag of fireworks mouthless;
And what does the sun do,
But give up into the other side of another
Lover,
And I am so proud that this is how
I must have made you feel.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem